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 Posted: Mon Nov 20, 2006 10:04 pm Post subject: Casino Royale™ Free movies. latest releases, Dvd quality |
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Casino Royale™ Free movies. latest releases, Dvd quality
Casino Royale™
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There's one whopper of a reason why Casino Royale is the hippest, highest-octane Bond film in ages, and his name is Daniel Craig. This rugged, jug-eared Brit, whose irregular features improbably radiate a megawatt star charisma, gets the last laugh on the Internet buzz killers who've been ragging on him at craignotbond.com for being blond and blue-eyed and too short (five-eleven) for Bond duty. Not only is Craig, 38, the best Bond since Sean Connery, he's the first of the Bonds (great Scot Connery, one-shot George Lazenby, charmer Roger Moore, stuff-shirt Timothy Dalton and smoothie Pierce Brosnan) to lose the condescension and take the role seriously.
Craig reinvigorates a fagged-out franchise that's been laying on bigger stunts and sillier gadgets to disguise the fact that it's run out of ideas. And he does it with an actor's skill, an athlete's grace and a dangerous glint that puts you on notice that Bond, James Bond, is back in business.
Sad to say, Casino Royale is also weighed down by action-business-as-usual. Craig's a live wire, closer to the blunt instrument Ian Fleming imagined when he created the character in 1953, but he can't mess too much with the winning formula begun with 1962's Dr. No. Bond producer Albert "Cubby" Broccoli, who died in 1996, left the golden goose in the care of his daughter Barbara Broccoli and his stepson Michael Wilson, who fully grasp that the four stunt-loaded Bond flicks with Brosnan are the most lucrative in the twenty-film series and that they can't spend $150 million to produce a 007 art film.
Still, the producers deserve credit for busting Bond at least partly out of the box. The film opens promisingly with a scene - strikingly shot in black-and-white - that sets up Bond as an MI6 agent who may be too much of a hothead to earn double-0 status and a license to kill. Then come the familiar credits, and the typical song ("You Know My Name," by Chris Cornell), followed by a full-bore, full-color foot chase across rooftops in Africa. Though efficiently directed by GoldenEye's Martin Campbell, the chase stalls the movie and, worse, delays getting us up close and personal with Craig. Seeing him run and sweat isn't half as much fun as seeing him act.
After that, everything gets better. Casino Royale, heavier on character than action, was the first book in Fleming's Bond series, making it the ideal place to start the wheel spinning anew. That's right, Casino Royale acts like the other Bond movies never existed. We're back at square one, only the time is now, the fantasy is limited and the story is anchored in reality. Q, with his gadgets and invisible cars, is nowhere to be seen. The tone is set when Bond orders a martini. "Shaken or stirred?" asks the bartender. Craig delivers the answer straight-up and bone-dry: "Do I look like I give a damn?"
And we're off, with even the stock elements getting a fresh twist. Take the villain: He's Le Chiffre (Mads Mikkelsen), a banker who launders money for terrorists. It's a bit of a Dr. Evil parody that Le Chiffre cries tears of blood, but Mikkelsen, a star in his native Denmark, gives off a genuine eww vibe, especially when he tortures Bond with a testicle squeeze and pauses to leer at his naked body. Hero and villain go at it most excitingly over a poker table at Montenegro's Casino Royale, where a test of character, not strength, will determine the eventual winner.
What about the Bond girls? The gorgeous Caterina Murino sizzles as Solange, a babe he takes back to his hotel room for a roll on the floor that causes serious rug burns. But it's Eva Green as Vesper Lynd, a British treasury operative sent to stake Bond at the poker tables, who lifts her role to class-act status. Oscar winner Paul Haggis (Crash) contributes sly dialogue to a script that goes far beyond kiss-kiss/bang-bang. A scene in which Bond and Vesper attempt to guess each other's past histories trumps its comic zing with romantic gravity.
It also helps that Craig is mixing it up with a first-rate cast, including Jeffrey Wright as CIA agent Felix Leiter, Giancarlo Giannini as MI6 contact Mathis, and most especially Judi Dench, back in the game as M, Bond's boss. Dame Judi put her power on hold in the lightweight Brosnan films, but with Craig she comes out blazing, knowing she's found an actor who can give as good as he gets.
As the plot globe-trots from Prague, London, Miami and the Bahamas to an overblown climax in the canals of Venice, Casino Royale uncovers something unique in the 007 dossier: an unformed secret-agent man, lacking polish, vulnerable to violence and helplessly lost in love. Craig gives us James Bond in the fascinating act of inventing himself. This you do not want to miss.
Review
by Dave White
Who's in It: Daniel Craig, Eva Green, Judi Dench, Mads Mikkelsen, Jeffrey Wright, Giancarlo Giannini
The Basics: Remember Timothy Dalton and Roger Moore and Pierce Brosnan and how suave and dashing and freshly bathed they always seemed? Well, those days are over. Craig as Bond is an egocentric, thugged-out hot-head with a squashed-in mug whose first impulse isn't to invite you to tea with David Niven. He's just going to shoot you in the face. And it's about time. I haven't dug a James Bond movie this much in about, oh, I don't know, forever.
What's the Deal? And another thing. For years now, the Bond movies have pretty much lost me, plot-wise, after the first 15 minutes or so. I just sit back and think, "OK, I officially have no idea what's going on, so I'm just going to wait for stuff to blow up and for the bad guy to whip out the death-ray." It's almost as if they showed those movies with the reels out of order. But this one? It makes actual sense. You don't need chases and fights and explosions to make tons of sense, but it's great when they do.
History: There was a version of this movie made in 1967 and Woody Allen was the villain. As you might guess, it was kind of a Bond parody. This one is nothing like that. In fact, it's a re-booted version of Bond because Casino was the first Bond novel that Ian Fleming wrote. So this one gives you a fresh Bond, one that's just starting his 007 career, one that doesn't have the Aston Martin or a preference in martinis. And he works out, which is something you could never say about Roger Moore. In fact, Craig looks like he just got sprung from the boxing program of some British prison.
A Not-Boring Bad Guy for a Change: Danish actor Mads Mikkelsen from those great Pusher movies that you should see sometime — they're about petty, drug-dealing criminals in Denmark, and they're warped in a very good way. Anyway, as the villain here, he's asthmatic, has a weird eye scar and involuntarily cries blood that he's always dabbing with a handkerchief.
Draggy Part: The poker game in the middle. I hate poker, so I was bored. Got candy. Milk Duds, in fact. That made it better. Then it gets exciting again.
Review
by Anthony Lane
Who said this: “It is interesting for me to see this new Bond. Englishmen are so odd. They are like a nest of Chinese boxes. It takes a very long time to get to the center of them. When one gets there the result is unrewarding, but the process is instructive and entertaining.” The speaker is Mathis, a kindly French liaison officer in “Casino Royale,” Ian Fleming’s first James Bond novel, published in 1953. More than half a century later, we are back with “Casino Royale,” No. 21 in the roster of official Bond films, and we are back with Mathis. As played by Giancarlo Giannini, who was recently seen having his intestines removed in “Hannibal,” he is pouchy, affable, and dangerously wise, and his presence hints that this new adventure will not be an occasion for silliness: no calendar girls, no blundering boffins, no giants with dentures of steel. The same goes for hardware, with rockets and gadgets alike being trimmed to the minimum. It is true that Bond keeps a defibrillator in the glove compartment of his Aston Martin, but, given the cholesterol levels of the kind of people who drive Aston Martins, a heart-starter presumably comes standard, like a wheel jack. Whether Bond has a heart worth starting is another matter.
He is now played by Daniel Craig, as the world knows, and, if I had my way, the world would have shut up about it for the past thirteen months and waited to see the result. Mathis was right: what we get is a Chinese box, although one’s initial impression is that the outermost box is a packing crate. I cannot prove it, but I suspect that God may have designed Craig during a slightly ham-fisted attempt at woodworking. His head is a rough cube, sawed and sanded, with the blue eyes hammered in like nail heads. He could beat a man’s brains out with his brow. That suits the Bond of “Casino Royale,” who has only lately acquired his license to kill, and, like a kid who’s just passed his driving test, is eager to step on the gas. He will slay anyone, if he so wishes, and the news is that he does so wish, and that he worries about the wishing—not enough to stop the killing, although at one point he tenders his resignation to M (Judi Dench), but enough to make him wonder if he’s fit for anything else. Craig has the courage to present a hollow man, flooding the empty rooms where his better nature should be with brutality and threat. His smile is more frightening than his straight face, and he doesn’t bother with the throwaway quips that were meant to endear us to the other Bonds. The only thing he throws away is a set of car keys, having borrowed a Range Rover and slammed it backward into a row of parked cars, in order to set off their alarms. Calm down, you want to tell him, have a Martini; and so he does. “Shaken or stirred?” the barman inquires, and Bond spits back at him, “Do I look like I give a damn?”
The plot, unusually for a Bond picture, leans heavily on the novel. Bond is up against Le Chiffre (Mads Mikkelsen), who has a six-foot-tall mistress, a weepy eye, and nothing to cry about. His pleasure is gambling, and his career as a banker takes him to selected trouble spots, where he likes to meet the locals and help them with their plans for terrorism. What sets Le Chiffre apart from Bond’s preceding nemeses is that he has absolutely no interest in running the planet, preferring instead to profit nicely from its ruin. This is a welcome twist, one of the pitiable things about the 007 franchise being its fixation on global conquest—a cheesy homage, I often think, to the ubiquity of the Bond brand itself. When Martin Campbell, the director of “Casino Royale,” made “GoldenEye,” in 1995, the outcome was spirited enough, but it also felt stupidly grand, all wall-size computer screens and electromagnetic pulses fired from space. The new film has a leaner streak, and the high-tech attack methods are as follows: drowning your enemy in the washbasin of a men’s room; throttling him in a hotel stairwell; and, best of all, chasing him through a construction site.
This chase goes on far longer than expected, like a theological discussion in a Bergman film, with both the fleeing baddie and the pursuant Bond careening off walls and cranes and anything else that juts into their path. Rather than zipping through some customized hideout beneath the waves, decked out with nuclear reactors and sharks, they are merely making the best of their environment. Could this be something new in movies: green violence? It looked pretty natural to me, with Bond forever getting nicked and bruised. “Casino Royale” is allegedly the first 007 saga to feature rain, and Craig is the first proper bleeder, standing in front of a bathroom mirror and contemplating his own downpour. (Look how he swallows a Scotch to numb the hurt, and then try to imagine the Roger Moore equivalent—the pensive sip, the appreciative smile at the distiller’s art.) This is still Bond, however, so the next scene finds him sliding into his seat at the poker table, in a bloodless white shirt; indeed, if my math is correct, he goes through three freshly ironed dress shirts in a single night, which suggests that he has off-loaded Q in favor of a silent Jeeves. Also, he has to look good for Vesper Lynd.
Miss Lynd is an accountant, employed by Her Majesty’s Government, and, just as “The Spy Who Loved Me” is said to have burnished the sales figures for Lotus sports cars, so “Casino Royale” should transform accountancy into the most erotically charged of the professions. (There is one horrific attempt at product placement, and I hereby propose an international ban on Omega watches.) Vesper is played by Eva Green, who retains from her role in Bertolucci’s “The Dreamers” an unnerving blend of the fleshly and the spectral, and one thing she definitely is not is a Bond girl. Vesper is a Bond woman—a Bond Lady of Shalott, I would say, with all the sufferings of the world reflected in her dark-shadowed eyes. Her skin is paper-pale and her lips are vampirically red, as if she hadn’t slept in a hundred years, although, whatever has been keeping her awake, it isn’t sex. She is the only woman with whom 007 partakes of coitus uninterruptus, and even that takes two hours to bring off. For a Bond picture, “Casino Royale” is amazingly short on lust. There is a moment when our hero lands in the Bahamas and glances over his shoulder at a couple of flirters in tennis gear, but Craig looks so embarrassed, almost insulted, by such levity that the experiment is never repeated. Bodies, it would seem, exist to be abused, not caressed, and Campbell takes care to incorporate, straight from the novel, a sequence in which Bond is denuded and tortured, with particular attention being paid to his organs of desire. Poor fellow. If p**** Galore showed up, he’d pour her a saucer of milk.
Things have been so moribund for so long in the Bond business that it was always going to take some major defibrillation to jerk it back to life. “Die Another Day,” the last film, was a gruelling nadir, although the producers would be right to point out that it earned four hundred and fifty million dollars, which is three times the purse that Bond and Le Chiffre battle for at the tables. This means that the sight of Pierce Brosnan driving an invisible car, though bound to dismay every Bond-revering adult, was catnip to the larger constituency of teen-age boys, who were comfortable with a film that felt like a video game. What they will make of “Casino Royale”—no babes, no toyland, and the poker not even online—is anyone’s guess, but the earnings of the new film will doubtless affect the look, and the casting, of the next. If Craig falters, then I guess it’s full speed ahead to Chris Rock as 007 and Borat as Blofeld. That would be a shame, because “Casino Royale,” though half an hour too long, is the first semi-serious stab at Fleming, and at the treacherous terrain that he marked out, since “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service,” in 1969. Like that film, this one ends in despair.
To be precise, it ends with Daniel Craig wearing a dark-blue three-piece suit and toting a machine gun, which is the best, though not the most cost-effective, way to overcome despair that he can think of. The name Le Chiffre means “the cipher,” but, once the stage is bare, it is Bond who remains the enigma—as unbreakable to the cryptographer as to the torturer, and even to himself. Raymond Chandler once challenged Fleming in a letter, saying, “I think you will have to make up your mind what kind of a writer you are going to be. You could be almost anything except that I think you are a bit of a sadist!” As with Fleming, so with his creation: the fledgling Bond of “Casino Royale” has yet to make up his mind what kind of a man he is going to be. The cruelty he can manage, with ease; what he still lacks is the license to live. Hence the scene in which, flush with winnings, he shares a late supper with Vesper, as if hoping to dine himself into being a gentleman. Even his grainy features are flattered by the soft lighting, and, savoring the mood, he pays his companion a wooing compliment, then blows it by adding, “I thought that was quite a good line.” Even James Bond, in other words, wants to be 007. Join the club.
Review
By Scott foundas
Among its other merits, the latest James Bond picture, Casino Royale, offers a handy lesson in current global economics. In this 21st official screen outing for Ian Fleming’s evergreen MI6 agent, the cars are as fast as ever and the women even faster, but the villain du jour isn’t a Dr. Evil–type mastermind hell-bent on world domination. Instead, he’s merely a wealthy private banker called Le Chiffre, who believes firmly in equal-opportunity lending, especially where international terrorists are concerned. And just how much money does the newly cash-poor Le Chiffre (played by Danish actor Mads Mikkelsen, with a nifty ocular scar that bleeds bright-red tears) need in order to keep his operation solvent? Why, a mere $150 million, which he intends to pocket from a winner-take-all poker tournament at the titular Montenegran gambling parlor. A sum, I feel compelled to note, that’s a fair bit less than the cost of making and marketing a James Bond movie. These days, it seems, anarchy comes cheap; it’s entertainment that’s expensive.
A more modestly scaled bad guy isn’t the only surprise Casino Royale has up its tuxedoed sleeve. Borrowing its title and its inspiration from the first of Fleming’s Bond novels (previously the basis for 1967’s lamentable Bond parody movie of the same name), it gives us a wet-behind-the-ears super spy who’s only just graduated to coveted 00 status, who doesn’t much know the difference between a shaken and stirred martini let alone care, and who doesn’t get behind the wheel of an Aston Martin until a third of the way through the picture. (Until then, it’s — egads! — a Ford rental car for him.) This is meant to be a less elegant, more rough-and-tumble Bond than we’re accustomed to — Bond before he becomes “Bond, James Bond.” So it’s only fitting that longtime series producers Michael G. Wilson and Barbara Broccoli have selected a new actor for the role, though unless you’ve been on permanent vacation from the Internet, you already know that the choice of Daniel Craig — the shortest, blondest actor ever to play Bond — isn’t to the liking of some die-hard fans.
As it turns out, everything that seems “wrong” about Craig (who was last seen as one half of the oddball jailhouse romance between Truman Capote and convicted killer Perry Smith in Douglas McGrath’s superb Infamous) is exactly what makes him right for this incarnation of Bond. Built like a scrum-half and possessing the granitic countenance of a nightclub bouncer, Craig is brusque and bullish, and when he squeezes his stocky physique into a tailored dinner jacket, he seems very much Fleming’s orphan from the wrong side of the tracks trying (with only partial success) to conceal his hardscrabble past. And though this Bond disposes of his enemies as quickly and mercilessly as any 00 agent must, he doesn’t laugh off his kills with a wink and a pithy one-liner. It’s certainly the most sober read on the role since Timothy Dalton played Bond for a two-picture stint in the late 1980s, but also the most human and vulnerable 007 since George Lazenby wept over the body of his assassinated bride in the final frames of 1969’s On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.
To that end, Craig is very well paired with the strapping French siren Eva Green (The Dreamers), whose by-the-book Treasury officer Vesper Lynd is probably the most complex creation in the “Bond girl” canon — neither the submissive flirt or ball-busting vixen of Bond adventures old nor the extreme sportswoman (Michelle Yeoh, Halle Berry) of more recent vintage, but rather a smart, sexy, independent-minded femme whose relationship with Bond is based on something deeper than the exchange of mutually seductive charms. Meeting on a train, they chew on some terrifically punchy dialogue (courtesy, one assumes, of Crash and Million Dollar Baby scribe Paul Haggis, who receives co-screenplay credit alongside regular series writers Neal Purvis and Robert Wade) that’s like the smart, double-entendre-laden lingo prospective lovers used to bat around in literate Hollywood romantic comedies. And when he comforts her following a frightening shootout in a hotel stairwell, it’s tender and affecting in a way we don’t expect from a James Bond movie.
Of course, we don’t really go to Bond movies for the dialogue and the romance. We go for the action, and on that front Casino Royale delivers — if, like everything else about the picture, in a refreshingly downsized way. When the New Zealand–born director Martin Campbell last sat at the helm of a Bond movie, on 1995’s Goldeneye, he had Pierce Brosnan tear through the streets of St. Petersburg in a Russian army tank. Here, he keeps things considerably more spartan, beginning with an exhilarating foot chase, as Bond pursues a terror suspect (French “free running” champion Sébastien Foucan) through a Madagascar construction site, that’s a ballet of gravity-defying acrobatics, as if Spider-Man were fleeing from Fred Astaire. An opening like that is hard to follow, but Campbell keeps things moving at a clip, bringing a different sort of tension to the casino scenes, which could have stopped the movie dead in its tracks but instead play out like a sweeps-week episode of Celebrity Poker Showdown in which one of the celebrities happens to be Osama bin Laden’s personal financial planner. If he wins, we all lose.
Like Guy Hamilton (Goldfinger, Diamonds Are Forever) and John Glen (For Your Eyes Only, Octopussy) before him, Campbell is an ideal director for Bond because he doesn’t try to impose a personal style on the proceedings. (He may not even have one, but that’s another matter.) After all, new casting and updated gadgetry aside, Bond remains the most unrepentantly old-fashioned of Hollywood movie franchises, in large part due to the storied unwillingness of Broccoli and Wilson to tinker with their proven formula, despite the expressed desires of Steven Spielberg and Quentin Tarantino to try their hand at the series. But Broccoli and Wilson have dug in their heels and, following a brief fallow period in the early 1990s, time has proven them right. As of the last episode, Die Another Day, Bond was as popular and profitable as ever, and I suspect Casino Royale will continue the trend. For what’s appealing about Bond is precisely its unhip classicism — its promise of clean, crisp excitement delivered without the interference of whiplash-inducing camera pyrotechnics, attention-deficient editing patterns, gratuitous color tinting and/or ear-splitting rock ballads. To be sure, the series has occasionally spun out into the stratosphere (quite literally in the case of 1979’s Moonraker) and needed to be reset. But Casino Royale does that ably, and when it’s all over, you can take renewed pleasure in that famous end-credits guarantee: “James Bond Will Return.”
Review
By Michael Phillips
For a long time now, the James Bond franchise has been operating with a license to overkill. That license has been revoked by "Casino Royale." It doesn't even feel like a Bond film as we have come to expect them, in their numbing, increasingly gadget-dependent gigantism. No death rays from space this time. No invisible car. For once, most of the laws of physics are given due respect.
A renewed sense of engagement informs director Martin Campbell's tough, absorbing adaptation of the 1953 Ian Fleming novel, the one that started the whole 007 business. Daniel Craig is just right in the role, which has been rethought in ways that connect with the Bond Fleming actually wrote -- not in terms of physical appearance, but in terms of charismatic heartlessness with a hint of a soul underneath.
Along with his bullet-shaped frame and unlikely azure eyes, Craig brings an emotional volatility to the role that is both recognizably human and just plain more interesting than his recent predecessors. He's easily the best Bond since Sean Connery. Not since "The Spy Who Loved Me" nearly 30 years ago -- a wholly different, larky sort of entertainment, the highlight of the Roger Moore smirk era -- has a 007 movie been worth talking about beyond matters of scenery, however you define it.
One hesitates to call "Casino Royale" a spy bash for grown-ups, because Fleming's vicious imperialist-b***** worldview always had a bully-boy adolescent streak to it. But with "Casino Royale," you don't get the nagging feeling that screenwriters Neal Purvis, Robert Wade and rewrite man Paul Haggis ("Crash") preoccupied themselves with demographics, or getting the kids in to see it, or even the idea of topping themselves with each new location. (The locations range from the Czech Republic to the Bahamas to Venice.) The action can get pretty harsh, but there's hardly a scene that overstays its welcome.
This isn't one of those Bond entries in which hundreds of extras get mowed down every other set-piece. The violence is rapid, personal, and a key torture sequence -- an assault on Bond's scrotum, straight out of Fleming -- relates more to Abu Ghraib than the comparatively ticklish scene in "Goldfinger" in which Gert Frobe threatens Bond's gents with a laser.
How much real-world anguish can this franchise handle? It's a question hanging over every frame of "Casino Royale," and the answer is, "about this much." The screenplay is set in the present day, trading the novel's Russian Communist baddies for an Albanian funder of international terrorism. Bond is a hot-tempered newbie in this outing, only lately having earned his hallowed double-0 status.
On the trail of terrorist loan shark Le Chiffre (Mads Mikkelsen), Bond botches an assignment in Uganda early on in the picture. It's worth it for the audience: The first extended action sequence in "Casino Royale" has Bond racing, on foot, in pursuit of a bomb maker played by Sebastien Foucan. Foucan's an ace practitioner of "parkour," also known as "free running." As he darts, leaps and bounds all around a construction site with Bond on his tail, the sequence builds beautifully. Its kinetic exuberance announces that this will not be a Bond film dominated by fireballs (though there are a few) or double-entendres (one or two, unlike the several million littering the worst of the Moore and Pierce Brosnan outings).
Under the watchful eye of M (Judi Dench) and aided by a fellow operative (Giancarlo Giannini), Bond arrives in Montenegro with British Treasury functionary Vesper Lynd by his side. There, in the swank hotel and gaming establishment of the title, he squares off against Le Chiffre in a multimillion-dollar poker game. (It was baccarat in the book.) Daringly, director Campbell keeps this marathon casino sequence front and center, although attempted assassinations and a poisoning make it a poker game with a difference. Another difference: The romance between Bond and Lynd, played by French actress Eva Green, is taken very seriously. Green's an intriguing choice for the role, and she and Craig share some bracing, tersely flirtatious exchanges before and after the big game. At times, though, Green seems ever-so-slightly out of it, in her wide-eyed way, as if trying to remember what her dialogue coach told her about sounding British.
"Casino Royale" is not perfect. It's longish. The opening-credits sequence is truly lame. Yet in the same way "Batman Begins" offered up a creation myth for a deathless folk hero, this film erases the excess and bombast of the last generation of Bond-going. Eleven years ago director Campbell made "GoldenEye," the first of the Brosnan Bond pictures. "Casino Royale" trumps it every which way.
'Casino Royale'
Directed by Martin Campbell; screenplay by Neal Purvis, Robert Wade and Paul Haggis; cinematography by Phil Meheux; edited by Stuart Baird; production design by Peter Lamont; music by David Arnold; produced by Michael G. Wilson and Barbara Broccoli. A Columbia Pictures release; opens 12:01 a.m. Friday at selected theaters. Running time: 2:24. MPAA rating: PG-13 (for intense scenes of violent action, a scene of torture, sexual content and nudity).
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